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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23646289">First Go and Reconcile to Them</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowherebound/pseuds/nowherebound'>nowherebound</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brotherly Love, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Coping, Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Dean Winchester, Kid Sam Winchester, Neglected Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:42:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,423</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23646289</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowherebound/pseuds/nowherebound</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Just yesterday morning he had been alright. He had been the same big brother Dean who made breakfast for Sammy, dressed him for the day, exclaimed at his crayon drawings as if he were looking at a painting in a museum, washed his hands for dinner, read him a story before bed and then… Then, that night after tucking Sammy in, he went to sit against the window just as he was now, and he looked out onto the park next to the Motel and saw a wide, one-tiered fountain there. And then Dean had a bad though, the worst thought in his life.</p><p>Or, childhood trauma is fucked up and Dean has to deal with it while staying strong for his brother.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>First Go and Reconcile to Them</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is about little Dean, who despite being a kid himself, has to take care of his little brother. John really put so much responsibility on Dean and I believe neglected his sons' emotional needs while they were growing up.<br/>So, WARNING!!!!: this is not a pleasant story, it deals with the trauma of childhood neglect, there is discussion of a murder. Proceed with extreme caution.<br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s raining outside. The dense sheets of water pour from the sky as if tipped from a waterfall, obscuring the sight from the room window. Fat droplets land against the pane and Dean, who’s resting his head against the icy-cold glass, watches them race down, following streaks made by other droplets or creating their own zigzag paths, before disappearing past the sill. His warm breath fogs against the pellucid lites and Dean amuses himself by watching the moisture break across the wooden muntins, tilting his head minutely this way and that to make new patters. A grandfather clock ticks in the silence, its pendulum casting a swaying shadow across the room. Steady and smooth, it keeps beat like a metronome, and Dean can feel its gentle sway lulling him to sleep. He could almost fall asleep, he muses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a nicer room than they’ve stayed in in a while. For one it’s in a hotel instead of the usual dingy motel room, built on the edges of highways for faraway travelers, just clean and nice enough to crash in; But in the mornings the illusion falls apart and it’s easy to see though the facade of a livable home the room puts on, with the threadbare bedding and the mysterious stains on the carpet and not even the electric kettle nor the Bible stashed in the bedside drawer making it feel like more than a room in a dollhouse: lived in only when someone in watching, and in reality just a set. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this room has a mahogany grandfather clock and a queen-sized bed and muntin windows which if Dean pretends hard enough, could be looking onto a lovely front garden, with green grass and white picket fences, perfect for two little boys to play in. This room almost feels like a home, somewhere Dean can live with his Mom and Dad and Sammy can play safely with his toys all day long and won’t ever have to go hungry. At this thought, the illusion breaks and Dean is drawn back into reality with a sharp inhale. He feels as cold as the air in his lungs; frigid, paralyzing. He feels as though his heart forgot how to pump blood through his arteries and now he is not human but one of the brutal beasts his father butchers on his hunts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brings a finger to the window and starts tracing a mindless figure-eight pattern to banish the feeling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Up, down, up down, one, two, one, two</span>
  </em>
  <span>; He and the clock work in unison. Soon he feels his eyelids droop with exhaustion again but a movement outside makes his spine shoot straight up on instinct. In the stillness of the night, a silhouette cuts though the hazy glow of the red vacancy sign, and Dean watches it swiftly make its way across the street. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just a man looking for shelter from the rain. Halfway through, he gives up on his now-soaked jacket, removes it from his head and, holding it under a folded arm, starts jogging with more vigor. Then he disappears into the Hotel lobby, and the night is empty again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean watches with rapt attention for a while longer and, being assured of no imminent threat, slouches back down into his seat. Behind him, Sammy lets out a sigh at the ruckus, and Dean watches him, but for a few seconds and no more. As soon as his little brother settles back down, Dean swivels right back to the window and now, with the vacancy being filled and the sign turned off, finds himself face to face with his reflection. He stares, and he stares, and he stares. He stares until the teardrops on his cheeks blend into the rivulet of raindrops outside and wanders how his heart could have frozen over like a lake in December without him noticing something was amiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because just yesterday morning he had been alright. He had been the same big brother Dean who made breakfast for Sammy, dressed him for the day, exclaimed at his crayon drawings as if he were looking at a painting in a museum (and to Dean, no drawing in a museum was better than the wobbly stick figure family of Sammy’s), washed his hands for dinner, read him a story before bed and then… then, that night after tucking Sammy in, he went to sit against the window just as he was now, and he looked out onto the park next to the Motel and saw a wide, one-tiered fountain there. And then Dean had a bad though, the worst thought in his life. In front of his eyes, as if it were really happening, he saw himself and Sammy sitting there. His little brother is talking to him, something about his toys and his big brown eyes stare up at Dean, so trusting. As if he believes his big brother could solve anything, as if Dean will take care of him no matter what, but Dean knows the truth. He knows the truth he has been shielding from his brother. He knows that their father is a hunter and that they will never have a home except for dingy motel rooms, and that every time Sammy comes down with a cold he will just have to suffice with the medicine Dean tilts into his mouth because there will be no mother to whisper soothing words and press a cold cloth to his forehead; knows that there will be no report cards proudly tacked onto fridges and celebratory ice-cream after soccer games; no family picnics and no photos of four smiling people on mantelpieces, heavy with Christmas stockings, waiting for two little boys to wake up and discover their bounty. And Dean knows all this and he knows how much it hurts and he can’t let his little brother go through that. So he takes his hands and puts them around Sammy’s throat and pushes his head into the water. And he pushes and pushes and doesn’t let up until the small body has stopped squirming, and then he snaps back to himself and can’t believe he had thought something so vile. A bad thought, a terrible, terrifying thought; Dean is a bad boy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbles to the bathroom and empties his stomach into the toilet and the frantic beat of his heart won’t let up. He sits there for a long time, breathing frantically until he forgets what it means, like a word uttered too many times, and he hasn’t remembered it since.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is how John finds him and upon not being able to produce an answer out of his son, just puts him to bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning, Dean keeps his silence and John keeps shooting worried little glances at him. He knows it’s the reason for their stay at this hotel; he knows John wants him to get a proper rest tonight in hopes of returning back to normal tomorrow, but how can he? How can he ever act normal when he has thought something so abominable? Surely, if Dad knew, he’d do away with him like one of his monsters, and he’d be right to do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean takes a shaky breath and looks back at his brother. Sammy’s sleeping so soundly, so trusting of his brother even in his sleep. And Dean knows he would never hurt him. Knows he would rather die a thousand times over than let harm come to his little brother. The thought of hurting him puts a vile taste in his mouth and makes his stomach clench in painful knots. So why did he think it? </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know, I don’t know, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>forgive me.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly there’s an irresistible urge to hold Sammy in his arms, to know that he’s alright, to make sure he can protect him if harm were to befall them. Dean makes his way to the bed swiftly and climbs into it just as fast. The cool air that sweeps under the blanket makes Sammy shiver, but Dean is quick to pull it back over them both. He takes Sammy into his arms, and with a hand on the back of his head, pushes it under his chin, where soft locks tickle, and catch his falling tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s alive, he’s okay, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. His hand pets to the rhythm of the clock. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One, two, one, two, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Sammy sleeps through the night, knowing he is safe.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I’m sorry, I’m sorry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinks Dean, and holds his brother closer and finally falls asleep.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I want to make it clear, Dean would never hurt Sam! He never wanted to carry out what he imagined. He was feeling helpless and scared because he knew his brother would have to go though the same things he had, and it was the only solution his brain could come up with at the time. He loves Sammy and of course wouldn't hurt him! In fact, he did a very good job raising him, given the circumstances.<br/>This is also my first Supernatural fic! I swore I wouldn't watch this show but I've binged two seasons over the past week lol</p></blockquote></div></div>
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